


Fly Me to the Moon

by Turnandfacethepaige



Category: Doctor Strange (2016)
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 19:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10669641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turnandfacethepaige/pseuds/Turnandfacethepaige
Summary: In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.





	Fly Me to the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this after listening to Fly me to the moon from NGE for about the 100th time and I realised it could go quite well with Strodo.

It was almost midnight, and the rain still hadn’t stopped. It had started about an hour before they got here and had fallen, thick and heavy, ever since then, the soft rumbling of thunder chasing after it across the city skyline.

They were sat on the sofa, stretched out against one another, skin soft against skin, the steady thrum of their heartbeats entwined within each other. In the background, just above the sound of lightning and thunder, the soft croon of jazz and violins, dancing prettily in the room.

Mordo broke the silence.

‘When did you say this song came out?’ his voice was hoarse and devastatingly soft with sleep and comfort.

’1954.’ Stephen said. 

Mordo hummed in reply. 

Stephen swallowed. He felt stupid, like the contents of his brain had been drained and thrown far, far away from him. He always felt like this when Mordo came to him. Like some silly little boy with a school-girl crush that got flustered and blushing whenever he so much as glanced at him. 

Mordo’s head lay on the back of the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling, eyes only just open, and Stephen wondered what he was thinking, what he was planning to do. Mordo never spoke much during these - meet ups of theirs. He couldn’t really blame him. Stephen didn’t talk much either. These meet ups were the only times he could ever get a warm, comfortable silence. 

Everyone else in the Avengers talked too much or too little. Thor with his weird colloquialisms and his outlandish actions, talking like some goddamn Shakespearean play he had hoped to never hear or see again past high school, Clint with his little comments he had to sneak in sideways, Natasha’s cool, calm chats, and, without fail, Tony’s ridiculous banter, terrible jokes and bouncy chatter.

But Mordo was like the winds that had whistled around Kamar-Taj. Cool and calm, and refreshing to his stuffed, stressed mind. A balm for him when the noise got too loud. Silence was something Stephen relished in when the world got too loud and troublesome with aliens and monsters.

Mordo sighed, stretched his legs, and the blankets covering his lower body slipped slightly, giving Stephen a seductive tilt of strong thigh and curved calf, trailing to the floor, their robes and cloaks and weapons all strewed across the floor in a trail that led from the door, tracking their progress until they had made it to the sofa.

It had been slow, delicate, deliberately drawn out. Neither of them had wanted to go back to their respective agencies. Mordo had friends amongst the dark, gaping maws that lurked in the back of people’s minds and imaginations that plotted things that Stephen knew for certain would mean certain ruin for dozens upon dozens of people. Things the Avengers would want to stop. Things that the Avengers would absolutely demonise him over if they ever found out that he would invite in one of the most wanted sorcerers in the world to his house, his world, his mind and (provided they got there on time) his bed. He could only imagine their looks if they ever found out what he did. 

What they did. Mordo’s superiors would probably kill him if they ever found out as well. Mordo didn’t care. He had made that much clear from the first visit, panting the words, hot and wet into Stephen’s ear. This was a throwback for both of them, to a simpler time, where they could have gotten away with it. But now, it was too late for either of them to have anything. Not like this.

Not like this.

Stephen cracked his neck, rubbed away the tinge of cramp, felt the dampness of his hair against his neck from before. He turned to Mordo’s profile, outlined like Adonis against the streaming lights of the streets outside. The Greeks would have wept for a profile like that, he thought dimly as he attempted to collect his thoughts.

‘Are you staying?’ he asked, his voice deep in the silence.

Mordo murmured, ‘Do you want me to?’

Stephen said, ‘Whatever you want to do is up to you.’

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to curl up next to him, as stupid as that sounded. He wanted to reach out and hold him again and again and again. He wanted to have Mordo to himself, night and day, as someone he could trust and hold, not just for nights like this when Mordo would skulk outside his apartment block and Stephen would feel his heart weaken inside and he had no choice but to let him in.

Mordo sighed, ‘That’s no answer at all.’

Stephen wanted to speak. Wanted to ask more, wanted to know Mordo. But he was too scared. If Mordo got up and left through the door and never came back to him. If Mordo would laugh at him and laugh as he left. If maybe, just as the nasty little voice that lurked in his head had told him again and again, Mordo was taking this as ammo to use against him, despite what he had promised. You never knew with bad-guys, that’s what the Avengers had drilled into him, you never knew what they were capable of and what they would do.

But Mordo was his friend. Had been his friend. Maybe something more. 

And that was about as likely as winning the lottery and healing his hands. Mordo had abandoned him, left him for good in Hong Kong to run around New York trying to stop monsters and gods and aliens and criminals, only to turn up five months later, lurking near the doorway to his apartment, face flushed and pink, and Stephen had only opened his mouth before Mordo had stepped closer and shut off the warning signs in his mind with his mouth pressed against his own.

Mordo sat up in his position on the sofa and turned to look at Stephen, dark shadows playing in the hollow of cheekbone, collar and the devastating drop and curve of his neck. 

‘Do you want me to stay?’ Mordo repeated, his eyes meeting Stephen’s, unshakeable and deep, dark brown. 

Stephen felt himself nodding his head, but it was as though somebody else was doing it for him.

Mordo leaned towards him, placing his hands on either side of Stephen’s hips, and kissed him, open and soft and sweet, and pulling away before Stephen could do anything back. His hands rested on his shoulders, cupping Stephen’s face, his body inches away from his.

Mordo’s breath was gently fanning his face, warm against his cheeks, and it pushed him to ask him.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he croaked.

‘Because I want to.’ The answer was swift and collected. ‘Because you want to.’

He wasn’t bullshitting. Stephen could see it in Mordo’s eyes, and the set of his mouth, the way his hands held him adoringly, even as the rough calluses and just of fingernail dug into his jugular.

Stephen brought his hands to Mordo’s hips and whispered, ‘What will you do if someone finds out?’

Mordo sighed, shook his head. ‘They won’t. I’ve been over this.’

He was so close to him. So close to him and so far away. Stephen wanted to weep, could only keep wishing for more, wanting to know more. His ego crumpled and faded away when Mordo walked through his door, and he was left like a whinging little puppy, waiting for someone to pick him up and cuddle him, tell him it would all be alright. It wasn’t wrong to have someone reciprocate his feelings, wasn’t it? It wasn’t to know that all this useless pining over one man wasn’t for nothing, was it?

He wanted to know if it was just the same for Mordo. If he had to wake up one day without Stephen, go through weeks without him, building himself up to face the day without him and squash any silly, fluffy feelings. Try and go on a date, if he had enough time, try and find someone else, someone who was nice and normal, only for that all to be crushed to the ground and destroyed whenever he opened the door to find a sorcerer waiting there for him. If he was trapped in this cycle as well as he was.

The music had stopped by now. Faded away into the night, with only the rain and the hum of their breathing and their voices breaking the silence. 

Stephen felt the last, tiny fragment of dignity he had left within him dissolve as he looked at Mordo and whispered, half hoping he wouldn’t hear him, ‘How long would you have stayed with me?’

Mordo paused, thinking it through. ‘How long would you have wanted me to stay?’

‘Forever.’

‘Then I’d stay one day longer than that. So then you’d never have to be left without me.’

That - that-

That had to be it. That had to be something -

Did - did Mordo…. did Mordo love him?

That sounded a lot like love. That sounded like love and everything else that came with it.

Stephen wanted to ask more, wanted to lean in and kiss him back, but Mordo’s hand was stroking up the side of his face, and black was beginning to swirl in front of his eyes, his head drooping. He was aware of a pair of arms holding him, a body wrapping itself around him, the heat of another person before he was falling into a thick sleep.

***  
It was a police siren that woke him up, snapping him out of dreams and into reality with a painful jolt.

It was morning, clearly very late morning judging by the way the sun seemed to glare down at him through the windows. 

Stephen sat up. There was nobody else on the sofa with him.

He looked down at the floor. Only his blue robes lay puddled near the door, his cloak neatly floating by the front door, waiting for him to put it on, his boots lying sprawled on the floor.

Him naked and shivering on the sofa. Him and nobody else at all.

Mordo had gone.

Of course he hadn’t written a note, Stephen told himself, he never writes notes to say goodbye.

That hadn’t stopped him searching for one this time.

He had wrapped the towel around his waist, picked up his robes and headed towards the laundry room, shuffling and stumbling over the fabric, before cursing and dropping the towel altogether. It wasn’t like anybody was going to be watching anyways. 

At least he hoped not.

He dumped his clothes in the washing machine, set it to go and thought about doing something useful and pragmatic, like calling in with the Avengers or going to the Sanctum (considering he sort of ran the place) or maybe even stopping by the hospital. Maybe they would have use of someone with someone as damaged as him.

But he didn’t. He just stood there, watching his robes swirling in the machine.

He could afford to stay a little while, he thought dimly. He could stay for as long as he wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> So I realised that I've been spelling Strodo as Stordo in all my fics so far and I've never been more horrified. You can find the NGE version of this song on YouTube and please listen to it because it's gorgeous and everything I love in a song.  
> I've got a lot of work atm so if this is really jilted and doesn't flow quite right, sorry. I'm working on chapter 2 of Desperation so hopefully that should be up soon. Sorry for the semi-hiatus.  
> I have a tumblr! Come and check me out at turn-and-face-the-paige


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